


Ruin Me

by Mithrakana



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adultery, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hold up. She's BLACK?, Homecoming, Lovesickness, Makeup Sex, Pining, Purple Prose, Rain Sex, Regret, Secrets, Seduction, Sensory Deprivation, Sex in the Dark, Sex in the Mud, Sexual Content, Smut, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:39:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrakana/pseuds/Mithrakana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He will not hurt, he will not love. He will not leave her castle or her mind. She who conquers hell and coaxes kings cannot make this clanless vagabond do anything.</p><p>She refuses to give up.</p><p>“Enough, da’len. What have you done?”</p><p>He reaches for her cheek, the creases on his brow begin to deepen. She slaps his hand away and spits upon the ground between them. It is a universal symbol of disdain, but Dalish women are so <i>very</i> good at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do I Usually What?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karini/gifts).



Skin and hair and eyes hued like a sampling box of chocolates, thanks to some elf’s feverish frittering with a Chasind tribesman somewhere down The River Dalish. Shemlen satin, nothing else, and not much of it. No lace – _never_ lace. The blood-red lines that scour her face and plunge between her breasts make his toes curl up so tight he nearly gives himself a Charley horse.

The Inquisitor has no presence on the royal docket today, regardless of capacity. At all this _week,_ in fact. He’s been entertaining grousing Arls all evening long, and he was _just_ about to tuck it in.

 _Maker. Who let her in here? Wearing_ **_this?_ ** _The Inquisitor wants something from you, old King. Don’t let her see you sweat…_

“I like it. Very…diplomatic.”

 _"Oh?_ Diplomatic, is it?”

One eyebrow hikes, its twin not quite compelled to deign expression. Her airy voice is more akin to tinkling bells and kittens’ whiskers than it has any business being.

 _He_ knows better. So does she.

“No? Wrong complement? Right. Court is _not_ in session. I, ah, it’s the throne, you know? I don’t usually – Do _you,_ usually, Inquisitor? Do this? In your – “

_Andraste help me. I haven’t had a woman in my lap since that old crone in Redcliffe tried to feed me her soggy pocket candy._

“I had no idea you were so _comical_ in private. Do I usually _what,_ Your Majesty? Ride a shem’s cock on my throne?”

 _“Maker have_ **_mercy.”_ **

He doesn't  _mean_ to say it, but he does. He longs to melt into a puddle and run under one of any guarded doors – No really, just pick one. There are six, and all of them are closed and protected by _apparently_ useless soldiers.

She drawls. Her sultry smile is wicked. “Did I just hear you praying to your _Maker,_ shem? Last I heard, your god is not at home. Feel free to borrow any one of mine.”

Mortises and tenons whisper woody bearing as the Inquisitor rises high upon her knees to tower over Alistair and curl her fingers o’er the tufted throne behind his head. Her pert breasts now inches from his face, the anxious man drums heavy-fingered on the armrests of Ferelden’s seat of power. The dark-eyed world breaker straddling his lap withholds her judgment as her quarry strives to extricate himself with grace.

 _You can’t just run, not from her. Call the racist, terrifying, half-naked elf in your lap **sexy,**_ _Your_ **_Majesty,_ ** _before she feeds your bollocks to her dogs._

 _The Dalish_ **_do_ ** _have dogs._

“Lady Inquisitor. You are… _ravishing._ ”

 _Good word, scarier, feels more true. Good job. Go me._ **_S_** ** _omeone please help me._ **

He can do this. He can make her leave with blundering, **without** enraging her. If there is  _one_ social skill Alistair can boast, it is his uncanny ability to drop the ball with beautiful women.

“If you aren’t, ah, _doing_ anything, my personal collection of mabari figurines is _quite_ impressive. There’s one of you, you know, came out just last month! So _cute,_ bo staff in his little mouth, has your tatt - … _ **Mah-hah-hay-ker-her-her!”**_

It has been years, but yes – making an ass of oneself was _quite_ like riding in the saddle. One never drops the knack. Unfortunately, this round he sweetly loses. Even as she bows her head to whisper in his ear, one hand leaves his throne to run a rigid nail clicking up the bulging buttons of his royal trousers. She does not torture him with lingering there, at least.

Her breath - she even _smells_ like chocolate. He _ **loves**_ chocolate.

 _“Hm. So._ Your Majesty. What is it?”

“Buh-buh-beg your pardon?”

His eyes are pinpricks in their sockets. Never have his royal attentions scrutinized the banner o’er the entryway behind her head with such intent.

_Dusty. Omm…Dusty._

“You are frightened of me, _obviously,_ though your _body_ doesn’t seem to mind. I assure you, I mean you no ruin. You survived a _blight,_ Your Majesty. Why fear the Herald of your very own Andraste? The skin. The ears. The Vallaslin?”

_She’s giving you an out, Al. Take it._

_But I don’t_ **_want_ ** _to-hu-huuuuuu_ ** _ggghhh!_ **

His body whinges at him. He clutches his throne to keep his hands from running up her muscled thighs, pushing his head back firm against his seat to keep from melting face-first into that angry-looking bosom.

The _Inquisitor’s_ angry-looking bosom. Angry in a… _friendly_ sort of way. Much friendlier than Anora’s, anyway.

_Someone send the Arls back in. I miss being bored._

“I – Inquisitor, you miss understand me. I – I _love_ chocolate, as a matter of fact. There’s three truffles stashed in the cushions here, if you’d like. A little melty. Linty, maybe.”

She snorts at his tactlessness, by no means ladylike. From their extensive dealings in the polity of reconstruction since the downfall of Corypheus, _that_ sounds much more like her.

 _“Ahh._ I think I see.”

“See what? Did it melt on my arse again?”

When he shifts to look down in jest, she grabs his heavy jaw and stops him. Real talk, no more games, King mode engage. He stills at the lady’s touch, and he does not pull his face away. He looks up at her instead, unwavering and stern. For all their differences, their eyes are just the same.

“Inquisitor. How did you get in here, anyway?”

She ignores him. “However did a gentle-hearted man such as yourself conquer the blight, let alone become a ruler?"

“Good friends. Your point?”

“You aren’t afraid of _me_. I could be your Herald or your chambermaid, for all you care. You’re _barn sour._ Her Majesty has not been riding as of late, My Liege?”

“I am _not_ a horse.”

“You will be when I’m done with you.”

“Pardon me, Inquisitor. I must take my leave. I bid you good evening.”

“Alistair. You are missing half the fun of being a ruler. The world does not hinge on a King’s adulterated fuck. I _assure_ you.”

When the Inquisitor refuses to move, his eyes go narrow o’er the bottom line. What a man wants and what a King can have are by _no_ means the same. He begins to grow angry at her disrespect, and he will be getting angrier.

The cat can purr. She drags her fingernails along his clenching jaw. _“Careful,_ Your Majesty. That uncompromising glare of yours _brought_ me here.”

“Answer me. How did you get in?”

“I am the _Inquisitor,_ Alistair. _I go where I want.”_

“You have _no_ call to address me by my common name.”

“Does _she,_ Your Grace? Use your common name?”

“My Lady, if you do not _remove_ yourself _immediately,_ my guards will escort you to the muddy streets in that slutty – ”

It is not a bluff; he _truly_ thinks he means it. She doesn't laugh in Alistair’s unfeeling face, but she  _does_ prove him wrong.  

When a grip too strong to be a woman’s sends his shoulders rattling against his heavy throne and her hot tongue descends to ravage the royal mouth that threatens her, King Alistair falls victim to the Inquisitor’s indomitable will the same as all the rest.

Minutes, _less_ than minutes. Helpless with lust, the married man roughly clutches at the Herald’s tattooed hips beneath that silky slip and takes her like a savage in his lap, just as she wills it. It is a strained affair, their grunts of frenzy stunted lest the guards should hear them.

Her hair whips him ‘cross the eyes when she throws back her head with coming on his pounding shemlen cock. He curses, burying his face against the only part of her that jiggles as he ruts to spurting nothing in her seizing cunt.

The Thedan Legends do not speak another word. He watches her throw open a guarded side door and strut towards the nearest waystone with her head held high in pride. Try telling _her_ she’s almost naked with come trickling down the inside of her leg.

Bael hasn’t always been this way.

_“The Veil is thin here. Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?”_


	2. His Heart Doth Hitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my beloved readers mentions how out-of-character it is for Alistair to act this way, and she brings up a good point.
> 
> In this little story Alistair is hardened and stuck in a loveless marriage, Warden has been dead for years. He resents Bael very much for seducing him, as he hates himself for allowing this to happen. We'll explore those little truths briefly later, but - I thought I should mention! It does feel strange to write Al this way, but I have convinced myself that in this hypothetical scenario in the distant future of his SL, being coerced to have sex by an elven woman he respects almost to the point of fearing her when he has been lonely for a very long time, and having her treat him like a sex toy, not a lover...this is how he would act.
> 
> He thinks a King should be better than this, and he thought he _was_ "better" than this. He does have the potential to become a washed-up alcoholic, after all. ;) He hesitates because he hates himself for doing this. 
> 
> Bael is acting very out-of-character here, as well. For both of them, this is an intentional extreme. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

He’s remembering all the myriad ways that strength within can change the world without; _ah,_ it feels _so_ good, taking magic’s ease for granted once again. He ascends unseen to her veranda with less effort than a sneeze, in the middle of the _day,_ no less. Though the air is cold enough to sting, noonday sun beats hard upon his back. He sweats uncomfortably beneath his journeying furs.

Fen’Harel stands still, lower back ‘gainst stonework railings. His countenance is thought and auditory focus manifest, eyes closed, head slightly bowed, dimpled chin in hand.

Though her dusty curtains are drawn tight against the sun, they do gutter with a zephyr’s gentle sigh. The door is cracked ajar; Bael is there, and Bael is alone.

Merciless, the sun. Sweat tickles as it trickles unimpeded down his temple.

It was paved with shame and ardor, the footsore path that brought him back. _So_ long, that road, though it took him only weeks. He wonders, did the weeks feel long for _her?_ Here he stands upon the threshold of his destination, his tonguetip crowded with apologies, half-baked confessions, adoration. For all his strength and wisdom, he can only find the nerve to stand and sweat, to eavesdrop on the noiseless air behind her drapes.

A heart time-tested as his own should _never_ hitch. Across the unseen room lamenting hinges open, close, no knocking – she’s _just_ behind the curtain, _feet_ from him, so close he hears her startled little gasp. Her lungs turn every breath to wonder in his heart, this gasp is no exception – Fen’Harel fawns in secret like a doe-eyed youth. _Oh,_ to hear the air she’s touched. In that moment, he longs to catch her in a jar like a farmboy does a cornfield full of fireflies, to take her ‘neath his covers and marvel at her brilliant light, even as she suffocates and dims to nothing through the night in spite of all the hammered holes in threaded tin for breathing. Brilliant, short-lived flashing moment that it is, her life, her light. _Brilliant._

When he hears another man begin to speak, yes. His heart doth hitch.

\---

Joking is for skirting truth. No sense skirting here. He is terse, and he is hardly likable. He resents her, even as he works to lose his clothes.

“ _Yesssh._ No maid?”

She is no longer startled. She wears a hand-embroidered robe now, not a slip. She has been waiting in this robe since after breakfast for His Majesty to slip away and plow her mind back into numbness where it simply must be kept, anesthesia in a masquerade of conquest.

She turns to see his face; she _forces_ herself. He is naked to the waist, and he is reaching for the flat-ended ironbark battlestaff that leans against her desk. She has half a mind to let him touch it – watch the Rune of Paralysis cripple him to breathless bulging eyes. Her weapon misses the war, that helpless frozen _face_ that always sticks and stays until too late. Grotesquely, so does she.

Tears would go sliding if he touched it, down _his_ cheeks, the King’s. He would lose his bladder.

“What’s the matter? So pampered, clutter shrinks your fussy cock? _Please,_ touch that.”

It works, he stops. Sarcasm is the closest either comes to honesty. He could banter back about his cock, the thing that brings them here – he doesn’t. The hand that reached now falls, a hint of hesitation crosses o’er his face.

It’s the hardest part for him, for men, for _all_ of them, beginning. Initiative, life teaches her repeatedly, is the antidote to awkward fumbling at the mind’s blurred line in sand with men you love and boys you need to fuck.

She sheds the mantle of her robe like water as she folds the space between them. Her nipples hard against his chest, her hand undelicate and grasping shoves beneath his pants. As a flat-eyed child, self-pitying and resigned, quaffs bitter medicine prescribed for seven days, so she strokes his loveless body hard with her jaw set and somber.

His voice grunts, his pinching at her nipple most irreverent. “Wouldn’t hate myself so much if yuh… _nnh_. If your chambers weren’t a sty.”

 _“Ohh,_ poor _baby._ Wouldn’t want you to _hate_ yourself.” She pulls her hand and body free, she turns around, puts on a show in bending after some unspecified scrap of junk, some insignificant cog in the great machine that is her insurmountable disaster of a life. This room, she doesn’t _own_ enough to ruin this too-big room with wailing crashing breaking everything, and yet – Here it is, indeed, a _sty._ A greater testament to the heartrending betrayal of a god than slighted Cory-baby ever left.

He takes her when she bends, she shoves her hands against the ground and brings her heels up in the air to ease his artless access. Does conquest always make a woman close her eyes and scowl?

\---

Fen’Harel forgets to breathe and once again remembers. Sex is only sex, and this is less than that – she hardly makes a sound, the other strains and cusses ‘neath his breath. For but a moment, Solas wonders if the man has merely stubbed his toe. When clarity comes groaning, he begins to shake his head.

He should be dizzy, head negating as it does. Head moving “No, no, no”, slow and gradual at first, just as before, his own blurred lines in sand ‘cross which she’d endless reach to sweetly yank him through. He turns as though to leave, he thinks he will, he shakes his head much harder. Surging steps toward the barely open door, she’s whining dirty nothings at this man she doesn’t love, he hears her voice and knows that is the truth. His hand stills frozen before opening.

_Don’t do this._

He does.

All is grace. He shoves the door, he seamless stoops to scoop her robe and toss it on her back, even as his magic plucks this man he’s never met up by his throat and sends him slamming ‘cross the room to hit her rattling chest of drawers. He doesn’t look at her – he can’t. She hates him now, much as he hates himself, and he cannot bear to see it. She says nothing. The backside of his mind recoils with pity at the sorry state of those once-stately chambers.

His academic tone betrays not a whiff of this. Fen’Harel is watching as this Thedan Great he’s seen but never met goes fumbling for his breeches on the floor.

“Make haste, Your Grace, lest I beat you home and love your wife.”

He has a lot of nerve.


	3. The Ravaged Mural He Dreamed For Her

Too shocked for shame, too shocked to don the proffered robe. _Ne’er_ too shocked to snatch her Veilless staff and crack intruding skulls. She moves to do it now.

Dust motes waft ‘round whistling ironbark in the narrow shaft of blinding sun where the offending interloper stands. Her paralytic blow finds purchase, yes, but not on flesh. A reverberating _crack_ the air of Tarasyl’an Te’las has heard innumerable times goes echoing ‘round the whole of her domain. As she listens, she is still.

Collision with a weapon o’er the wood of which Bael has often pondered in the past. A pale wood, elegant and plain, unassuming as the mage who dismissively explains its origins away. Though evasive, he nonetheless is happy at the questions.

This is a weapon meant to enter combat casting. For the sake of flirting - that is, testing The Inquisitor’s pedestrian skill by sparring ‘gainst the backdrop of an ever-wintry sunset - Solas and his humble staff of foreign yew were known to make exception frequently. Frequently, that is, until the night he snatched his love away with a paltry _"sorry."_

The strike's familiar note stays ringing in Bael’s disbelieving ears. Recognition of the voice she heard but breaths before abruptly catches up with her. As truth hits home, His Royal Highness slams her door.

He **could** say something like, _"Well met, vhenan. Your talent never ceases to amaze me. Gods, but you are **beautiful."**_

He very much does not.

He is too polite to look her up and down, and yet he does it. Darting quick and only once, expression purely medical. The interest in his tone is academic, the way it used to be before those fleeting moments when it wasn’t.

“I see. Historically inaccurate, albeit quite lovely. Your people are nothing if not imaginative.”

She is nude, and he is **him,** and she cannot believe it. Her speechless face contorts with grief, her violent finger indicates the exit.

“Inquisitor.” He knows her well enough. Without a word of comfort or a second glance, Solas nods and leaves.

\---

Two weeks ago, the door to the rotunda swung both ways. Today, it doesn’t. His push is met with a dull and solid _thud_. His inner self doth arch a brow, his outer self doth pull. Fen’Harel can only wonder at the contents of the fresh-planked boxes over which he hikes his leg to enter.

Crates are everywhere and they’ve been handled roughly, both floor and wooden corners pale with telltale plaster powder. Solas high-steps ‘round the cluttered room that once was his, eyes searching for an open space to view the wall. While a mortal painter’s work and time are finite things, to an Elvhen artist both are endless. Still, his fingers do pay homage to the ravaged mural he dreamed for her, and his face is not entirely without feeling. 

In moments, he forgets the slight. He is far too outraged at himself to pay his hardship any pity.

Funnily enough, the too-short loveseat where he sometimes napped remains intact against the wall. His books, his paint-spangled and likewise too-short sheet, the lot of it. He drops his clattering staff, the way he _never_ does. He sheds the too-hot mantle of his traveling furs onto the plaster-dusted ground, uncaring of the mess. His sitting sigh sounds tired, though his body isn’t. Hands mop sweat from chin to back of head, disgusted fingers flick. His elbows find his knees, his face his hands. He feels the perspiration on his lower back go clammy, clinging jumper soaked straight through. He stinks of heat. Surprisingly, the rumpled sheet beneath him smells of _her._  She has been sleeping here. He sighs again, his very breath repulsed.

She would know to find him here. In spite of untold power coursing through his veins, Fen'Harel would sit alone and kick himself until his slighted woman's justice came.

That is, if Bael would deign to come at all.


	4. The Font of All Creation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _While reading, understand that their perceptions of the situation - namely, Bael's true feelings and intentions - differ for a time._

Cullen clings to routine like a sea rat clings to flotsam. Though the threats to Skyhold dwindle low, the tight-run guardsmen cry the wellness of their station and the hour reliably. Thanks to this rigidity, Fen’Harel is well-aware when night’s hour slogs from witching into small.

He waits sleepless ‘midst the clutter of what used to be his space. Clouded moonlight filters from the night-stilled chambers high above; by the time it reaches him, the moon’s illumination dwindles sallowy and wan.

The abandoned room is freezing. Still, The Dread Wolf sweats profuse enough to parch. Though tonight he waits, ‘tis not _nerves_ that send these endless beads of salt a’trickling over every inch of burning skin. Nor is it stress that lends his limbs their gentle tremor. His breath comes as it always has, nigh on imperceptible and even.

It _does_ pause when his ear marks whispering hinges.

Feral stealth names her. In spite of all obstructions, Bael glides through the darkness as a wisp who never knew the light. Solas sits the way he has for untold hours: sweat-slicked head held downcast in his hands, cabalistic eyes attending ancient stone between his feet. He does not look up when The Inquisitor halts five paces to his right. As Bael takes her stand, Solas hears one sharp _tink_ of metal ringing ‘gainst the floor. Though she calls on him alone in dead of night, his tender lambkin comes forth bearing arms.

Sensible. Fen’Harel expected nothing less.

* * *

A Dalish warrior needs no sight to navigate familiar turf in dead of night. As the clenching of her fist denies the anchor’s emerald glow, her unadjusted eyes cannot define him. Though he is still and silent, her soul’s bile concentrates on where she _knows_ the man to be.

The Inquisitor begins to speak at once. Long silences are not Bael’s way. Her words lash him ‘cross a freshly dug-in moat of curt acerbity.

“State your business, _harellan.”_

His tone is tense, as well it _should_ be. He offers no apology for spoiling her kingly sex, or for the bloody rest of it.

“Inquisitor. I return from tending to a private matter. As before, I will be here if you’ve any need of me.”

A tightening grip. A staff of metal twisting, _grinding_ on the gritty floor. Bruxing molars join the overture of dwindling restraint.

“A _private_ matter? You return from disappearing without **_word.”_**

Solas breathes before he speaks. She hears him do it – breathing - and she _hates_ it. She longs to crush the rings of cartilage that make his throat. To hear his steady voice crack _one_ more time, but now with _begging._ What reverie, to look him in the eye and tell him **_no._**

“Forgive my secrecy. The surreptitious nature of my task could not be helped.”

Fen’Harel does not look up. Bael’s expression, shrouded by the night, is affronted from her bunching eyebrows to her barely parted lips. His evasive explanation – nae, _excuse –_ turns her heart from wrath to salted wound.

He mustn’t know how _vulnerable_ she feels. She likes to think she comes across entirely unfeeling, spitting venom as she speaks.

“ **No.** You are an apostate and a traitor. _Leave.”_

He shifts, he lifts his gaze. On seeing her, his head jerks with a start. Something, _something,_ shocks him. His breath sticks in his lungs, and he is silent.

 _Oh,_ but how the line twixt love and hate is thinner than a mug of Skyhold stew on Thursdays.

She hears him shift, and _when_ he shifts, her heart jumps in her throat. Though her unadjusted eyes cannot define his face, his familiar silhouette all silver-shot with moonglow doth compel her.

He breathes again. She hears him do it – breathing – and she _aches_ with wanting him. With that, his fate as prey is sealed anew. Though slighted Bael continues to indulge in much-deserved browbeating, she abandons her abhorrence on the grassy wayside of her own infatuation.

This is _him,_ and he is **back,** and this time she will catch him.

* * *

Unsettled as he is to hear this one-time savior of mages spit the word _apostate_ with such bigotry, her naked cheeks unhinge his jaw. Just hours ago, when he first beheld Bael’s vallaslin in all its vicious glory, he’d thinly veiled his longing in a compliment most snide.

She stands before him now in her customary Skyhold guise. Though the air is dim, he is quite certain: Those delicious lines of coveted crimson have been somehow **erased.** He stares, aghast. She seethes at him across the darkness. So shocked is he, The Dread Wolf hardly listens.

“You still think I’m stupid. A _private_ matter? I **saw** your **face.** You **left** because the orb was lost. I don’t know what you _wanted_ with it, but I’m **glad** it’s gone. Every morning, I thank Elgar’nan for that broken rock. Dirthara’ma.”

It is not like Solas to ignore her. For this, he does. His tone brews low with dread, oblivious to her rant. “Vhenan, your – ”

The word _vhenan_ earns Fen’Harel a metal blow across the face. Though the room is dark, his godly grip halts payment inches from his unflinching cheek. So hale is the immortal mage, the huntress’s enchantments do not stun him as they should.

“Don’t you say that to me. Don’t you _dare._ You used me from the start - You were using _all_ of us! I should have you drawn and quartered for your treason, for **trespassing!** ”

As she yells, she yanks the staff he grasps. He swiftly finds his feet with the momentum of her pull, eyes fixed upon her clan-orphaned face. When Solas casts to light the nearest sconce, vision affords Bael’s wrath certain luxuries; she moves to slap him, finishing the blow she started with her staff. _This_ time, he allows it. The Inquisitor finds her lover’s jaw incredibly unyielding. Her blow slips with his sweat, leaving his concerned attentions totally unphased.

He will not hurt, he will not love. He will not leave her castle _or_ her mind. She who conquers hell and coaxes kings cannot make this clanless vagabond do _anything._

She refuses to give up.

 _“Enough,_ da’len. What have you done?”

He reaches for her cheek, the creases on his brow begin to deepen. She slaps his hand away and spits upon the ground between them. It is a universal symbol of disdain, but Dalish women are so _very_ good at it.

His head shakes slow, the angles of his face turn south with sorrow.

“Inquisitor. Of all the enemies you’ve made in seasons past, none deserve your rancor more than I. Hate me. Curse me, cast me out. Drag my corpse behind The Inquisition’s fastest steed, if such sport truly suits your tastes. Deface me as you will, but do _not_ change your colors for a bastard such as me.

 _“Bael._ You are _perfect.”_

He has broken and rejected her in _every_ way. Now, he calls her perfect. To other men, hers is a steel-forged will. Here in his ransacked rotunda, young Bael yields to her tutor’s admitted guilt like monkey metal. Her chin wrinkles, her stern lips begin to falter.

“I thought - …I thought you’d…”

When their eyes meet in earnest, he once again beholds the shatt’ring of her brittle heart beneath his aching stare. He loathes himself for Bael’s every quiver. When she allows his caring hand to slide against her cheek, her eyes clench tight to fight a sob.

Relief floods his heart when wiping at her tears brings chocolate-tinted cornsilk ‘gainst his thumb. In that instant, he is sickened with comprehension: In spite of all he’s said on being unworthy of her love, in spite of all she’s _clearly_ done in vain attempt to leave their past behind, Bael’s gentle heart still suffers in the misty glen of Ghilan’nain _._

_She feels her face, marked, marred without malice. She didn't know. She thinks it's why you walked away._

His imagination sees a tearful da’len approaching Josephine to learn the human art of maquillage, bending craft against her heritage out of misguided shame. He sees her practicing its application late at night, though bonesore from the day’s demands. Without asking, he is sure she _nearly_ tried this mask on him. He can see her standing in the wee hours of the morning with shemlen greasepaint on her lovely face, staring at the moonlight ‘neath his door.

When his mind’s eye watches Bael retreat with doubting that the makeup will appease the scornful tastes of he who mopes and longs outside the Fade, the lovesick god recoils from the image in real time.

He shakes his head the way she makes him do. His hand leaves her painted cheek to slip behind her neck and pull her close. As she allows his touch, her forgotten weapon and her will for violence fall clatt’ring to the floor.

“Marvelous creature. Believe that you are perfect, for you _are._ There has never been a fault in you.

 **“I** am cursed. **Everything** I grow to love is ruined by my touch. _Please._ Do not allow my blackened fingers to destroy you. Hate me, child, but never change. You are a stronger being than that. _Don’t change.”_

The whisper bears repeating, and he does so. He chants _don’t change_ with his lips against her head, breath hot against her scalp. He hears her sniffling against his chest, he feels her arms against his sweat-soaked back. She stills. Concerned, she leans her body back. Her brown eyes find his face.

“Solas…are you ill?”

Though Bael snaps authority at all she sees, alone with _him_ her voice coos timid like a child’s. Her vulnerable innocence drives his flesh to ache with hunger he reviles.

So ashamed is he, the Dread Wolf _calls_ her child to reprimand himself. This _used_ _to_ stay his hand. He smirks at her dismissal of his lecture. On torch-lit eye contact, his voice box cannot help but purr.

“On the contrary, da’len. I can scarce recall a time when I felt better.”

With keen intent veiled as absent-mindedness, his thumb returns to rubbing off her makeup. The stuff is now smeared on his damp attire. Her vallaslin has only just begun to show.

She speaks as though she never yelled. When she reaches up to feel his chiseled face, she finds him fire-poker hot. Beneath her caring touch, he feels resolve go slipping. He tells himself to back away. Much as he refused to heed his conscience on her balcony, the Dread Wolf stands his place and spurns his sense of reason. His eyes slide closed, his sweaty cheek grows heavy in her hand.  

“But Solas. You’re on fire…and you’re _shaking.”_

He breathes in deep to smell her, he turns to brush his lips against her inner wrist. He says nothing of the ancient power boiling in his veins, mainspring of this feverish state. His hands are straying down her sides. She shudders helpless at his touch, as she has _always_ done. Though he courses with a strength he hasn’t felt in centuries, Fen’Harel finds his resolve to leave this bleating poddy lamb alone is _weaker_ now than it has ever been. 

His hands find purchase at her narrow waist. At his touch, her hips rock side-to-side. Her little whimper sets his closed eyes a’flinch with wanting, her fingers drag a bead of sweat down from his temple. She takes to toes, burying her face against his salty neck.

There is no more talk of penitence. There is no more talk of where he’s been. His sudden plea is hoarse and husky. “Bael. Send me away.”

Beneath his ear, the chilver sweetly bleats. She clenches fistfuls of the soaking fabric at his back. Her calves are taut with tipping toes.

“I thought-…I thought you left. I thought you didn’t want me. The things I did, I - ”

The space between them disappears. That he pulls her close and curls his fingers in the tendrils twixt her shoulders doth concede the folly in his words.

“The Inquisitor owes no man penitence. Your life belongs to _no one,_ child, and least of all to me.”

“Solas…”

Her tone is of indignant, loving protest. She leans back to find his eyes. He gives them willingly, his brow inviting her to speak. She is tracing on his sweaty skin. _Ah,_ the wolf thinks his prey so _innocent._ Fen’Harel, ancient as he is, is wholly blind to the wiles of this Dalish woman’s touch; the wolf in him perceives a gentle fawn.

She continues. “What does vhenan _mean_ to you?”

She knows. A bond of love. Commitment everlasting.

**Possession.**

In that moment, she has him.

His mouth is of a sudden dry. His covetous hands are sneaking up her back and down again, their gazes locked and smoldering with a hungry man’s unspoken answer. Her ghosting fingernails are sending shivers up his spine – _when_ did Bael forsake her clinging at his shirt to reach beneath? Upon his blazing skin, her touch is sweet relief.

 “Solas…stay. Call me vhenan again. _Please…”_

Hoarser still, through teeth that clench with foundering control. “Da’len, have you heard _nothing?_ That I return is not a kindness. My love is cursed, vhenan, and it will ruin you.”

His heart _aches_ to spy the glint of pearly teeth, her mouth agape with uninhibited desire. Her eyes explore his tortured face, secretly a’basking in his dwindling restraint. _Oh,_ how she sweetly coos beneath his burning gaze, voice a’tremble with inviting his predation.

_“Ruin me.”_

With that, he is lost. The words have scarcely left her mouth before her fretting quarry breaks his cover. Solas grabs her in a way he _never_ has. When he shoves her back against a jagged wall of crates, the impact steals her breath and sends teetering freight a’crashing to the ground. _Oh,_ how succumbing to his will floods Bael’s elating loins with sopping conquest. Compared to _this,_ all other victories bleach pale and lifeless.

The crashing crates inform Commander Cullen’s tireless even’watch. A cried alarm, the storming noise of greaves – the men approach, and quickly. Fen’Harel stares down at Bael intense and sharp, his body pressing every _inch_ of her with unyielding ferocity. One hand grasps her chin. Though his rushing words fill Bael’s panting mouth with spoken air, there is no kiss.

“I will not reap your feral beauty ‘mongst the Inquisition’s dusty tonnage. Hold your breath, vhenan, and come with me.”

She gasps mid-pant, doe-eyed and compliant. When Bael bites her lip to hold her air, Fen’Harel assumes a rare and toothy grin of triumph. At once, her face begins to tingle in his grip. As the unfamiliar travel spell made Bael’s insides do somersaults when Solas bore her to the glen of Ghilan’nain, so does it set her nerves aflutter now.

It happens quickly, faster than before. The crates are gone, the guards are gone, and they are only two.

The atmosphere is utter darkness. Persistently, her pressing escort keeps her close and holds her slender chin. Though robbed of vision, Bael senses blades of grass beneath their feet, rooted sparse and shallow in a soggy bed of yielding soil. An icy rain consumes their ears and batters them with droplets fast and sharp as stinging hail, roaring thick and limitless in all directions.

When a glaring bolt of lightning scours the cloudy midnight sky and thunder booms to deafen, she does not think to steal a glimpse at her surroundings. Though she can hardly use her eyes to see him for the hamm’ring rain, she spends that precious light consuming Solas’ expression.

With the shoving, with the _growling_ , Bael thought to find unbridled lust a’bordering on wicked. Here, in this foreign vastness weather-racked and strange, Bael is moved to find a gentle face awash with tenderness. In a flashing instant, all is dark again. She shuts her useless eyes to save them. Only then, pinned together ‘midst a screaming maelstrom black as pitch, does Solas move to claim his gasping love’s forbidden lips.

Their kiss is deep and reverent amidst the frigid chaos. The taste of him is thin and cold with rain. Even as he worships with his mouth, he wastes no time in stripping Bael and bearing her aground. When her soaked clothes cling and fight him, strong hands proceed to twist and yank. The noise of textiles rent asunder barely reaches her. As she yields to him, so yields the sinking earth beneath them both.

He is _radiating_ heat. She grips the fabric o’er his chest to cower shivering ‘neath the haven of his body. When Solas ends the sucking kiss and breaks away, she senses him undressing in a rush. Robbed of his shielding back, the biting rain strikes every naked inch of her with savagery. Icy needles set her dark flesh tight and bumpy. Her soft nipples draw up taut and small as coppers; for _them,_ the pleasure of nature’s stinging lash is boundless. Rain’s touch is so intense, her hips begin to writhe against the soggy earth. Though her hands long to search him out, she cups her breasts to shield them from these ecstasies too sharp and wild to contain.

His touch returns. In spite of freezing rain, his palms are hot as coals. _Oh,_ it wrecks her, his burning touch against her frigid skin. Without the slightest fumble, he sweetly takes her willing wrists and guides her hands away, exposing her tight bosom to the nipping weather’s unrelenting thrill.

He has traveled by her side for o’er a year, a’traipse through cave and tomb alike. Only _now,_ as he looms o’er her naked form in utter darkness and deftly sinks her hands into the earth, does her secretive companion’s act confess to vision that transcends illumination.

The torrential deluge renders talk impossible, as if they had a need. She is _far_ too lost in lust to scold him now. Sweet rainwater floods the hollows of her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her ears. It runs in rivers ‘long the luscious contours of her body. The affronting makeup is long gone, returned to bless’d earth from whence it came.

Her kneeling lover’s body keeps its distance. Reverent fingers trace her vallaslin with worshipful precision, ghosting ‘cross taut flesh and rigid nipples only once. One hand takes her hip, the other takes her shoulder. Flawlessly, he guides his love to curl up on her side and face away from him. _Oh,_ the love with which his fingers slide into her mud-caked hair, entwined and gently gripping. His free hand takes her topmost knee and guides it towards her chest, easing his intended access to her trembling center. Her leg against the earth, he deftly straddles.

 _Finally,_ she feels more than a glimpse of him. He is leaning o’er the length of her, his torso and his stomach firm with muscle, slick with rain. As she blissful bears the smothering weight of him, she sinks further in the icy mire. _Oh,_ but he is _roasting_ hot with power and all-consuming. Everywhere they touch, her tingling flesh cries sweet salvation.

Only then, as Solas weighs her down and laps the flooding water from her pointed ear, does he permit his elfhood contact with her begging sex. She has been slick with want for him since he shifted ‘neath the moon in Skyhold, and _no_ amount of drenching rain will rob her cunt of sliding lust. His scorching cock brushes ‘gainst her rainpricked inner thigh, and Bael scarce has time to thrill – he grips her hair, he grips her knee, he tongues her ear with groaning loud enough to hear above the storm. Pressure slow and certain penetrates her quivering folds and buries him in all. At last, _at_ _last,_ Bael becomes the first and only mortal soul to Know him.

She is blinded, she is helpless, breathless, _filled,_ ecstatic and enraptured by his overwhelming love. He is pulsing, he is _yelling,_ begging praises in the only ear that hears him. Her other ear, along with half the rest of her, is being swallowed by the planet she was born to worship.

The cold earth is rich and fertile here, it smells of blooming life. There is no _filth_ to soil, not for a Dalish tigress such as she. As their passion churns the sparsely planted earth to clumpy mud, she revels in the clinging mess. When his hand forsakes her knee to snare her face and delve into a shoving kiss, neither minds the taste of rain and silt. Instead, this timeless taste of genesis doth spur them both to moan delight and squirm as one.

Though he is wrecked and torn with lust defying all sagacity, the Dread Wolf is not harmful. His burning love is firm, not violent. His hands are strong and sure, but never forceful. With what little autonomy the object of his love can boast, she sends a mud-slicked hand to grasp his thewy haunch and urge his rutting hips. He hears the treasured lambkin bleat his phantom name, he _watches_ her delight unfold beneath his body’s thrusting will. As the icy rain absolves his ancient skin of salty sweat and soothes the endless fire of Mythal that burns within him, Fen’Harel finds vindication in his lover’s seizing plunge. _Oh,_ she clenches as she comes, she is slick and tight and loves him. He shoves his cock into the center of her universe and pushes there, watching her remake his world with every throe. She writhes against the earth beneath him, rare soul alight with all the beauty of creation. As he falls from grace above her, spilling seed and planting what his kin would deem a sin, his immortal heart hears not a _whisper_ of regret. He cries her name, he clutches her, and as a mated pair they tremble.

Bael Lavellan has never loved a mage. She has no knowledge of the way it _strains_ him, holding back from ripping at the Veil. Gentle lambkin that she is, the Dread Wolf does not wish to frighten her with magic from within. Another time, he will. Though he will never share the truth he nearly gave her, Fen’Harel will stay.

 _Oh,_ what pleasures The Inquisitor will reap, passing small hours ever after ‘neath a lovesick god whose ageless passion churns the soil to butter. He will crown their daughter queen in the upheaving years to come, and he will _cherish_ her.

In what seems a glimpsing breath of time, The Dread Wolf needs must inhume the savage huntress who ensnared his fickle heart. Racked with grief, the lonely god will lay her lifeless body at the font of all creation; here, in the rainswept tundra of the Korcari Wilds.

Though he will mourn, the god who learned to love without ruination never will regret.


End file.
